Slippery Slope

It began, as these traps always do, with an errand.

“Take these towels to the east wing,” the housekeeper had said, unaware of the way Cecilia’s face fell at the assignment. Cecilia glared at the towels thrust into her arms—Obvious pieces of narrative bait, Cecilia just knew. Fresh linens in a gothic manor were never innocent. They were plot devices in cotton disguise.

Still, being a hostage of the story, she had little choice other than to follow the plot line and get through it. So, off she went, arms piled high, until she pushed open a door and was immediately assaulted by steam thick enough to choke a dragon.

Oh God…

Oh no…!

Oh God no!

There he was, Lord Olrin, waist-deep in an oversized clawfoot tub, chest gleaming like a marble statue freshly polished by cherubs. Candlelight pooled across the water. Rose petals bobbed lazily, floating just sparsely enough across the steaming surface to be alluring, as if someone had meticulously organized them to look naturally perfect.

It was always goddamn roses…

Cecilia heard accursed violins screech into action.

“Ah,” he drawled, tilting his head, water dripping artfully down his jawline. “You’ve come to assist me.”

She dropped the towels like they were aflame. “Nope. Absolutely not. Wrong room. Wrong event trigger. Wrong genre as a whole. Goodbye.”

She spun on her heel, but the door slammed shut in her face.

Narrative gravity.

Dammit.

He smirked. “Don’t be shy. Hand me the soap. Unless, of course, you wish to join me.”

“Join you? Sir, this tub barely fits your swollen ego, let alone two people.”

His hand broke the surface, dripping, palm open. The violins trembled toward a crescendo.

She hurled a bar of soap at him. It smacked his shoulder, bounced into the water with a plop, and disappeared like a sinking ship.

“Assist me,” he repeated, voice thick with Seduction™.

Cecilia’s eye twitched, and she took a deep breath. “Fine,” she said, rolling up her sleeves. “Let’s do this properly then.”

She grabbed the nearest bucket, dunked it into the tub, and poured the freezing bathwater right back over his head. He sputtered like a drowned rooster.

“Refreshing, isn’t it?” she chirped. “The cold is good for circulation. Keeps the blood flowing to the right places.”

His jaw clenched, repressing the shivers that made his muscles twitch and skin prickle with goosebumps. “You make a mockery of what should be sacred.”

“Yes,” she agreed, sarcasm sharpening her words. “‘Sacred’ is precisely the word I’d use for your nipples right now.”

He sank lower in the tub, muttering darkly. The violins attempted to rally, but she cut them off by clapping loudly and announcing, “Next up—The scrub-down!”

She seized a bristle brush meant for floorboards and dunked it into the water. “Turn around, my lord. Let’s see if destiny can withstand a proper scouring.”

“Don’t you dare—”

Too late. She scrubbed a shoulder blade with industrial vigor. He yelped. Somewhere, the narrative squealed in horror.

“You see?” she said brightly. “All this candlelight and rose nonsense is impractical. A bath should be about hygiene, not temptation. Soap, rinse, scrub. That’s the holy trinity.” She stretched out the word letter by letter: “Sacred.”

She dunked the bucket again, sluicing his hair. Water cascaded. He sputtered, half-drowned, entirely unsexy.

“There we go, big guy!” she cooed, her voice so sugary sweet it could make teeth rot and crumble right out of the gum. “It’s tough to do this by yourself, huh? But don’t you worry, sweetie pie, I’m happy to take care of you when you’re having your troubles!”

If there was one thing that could assassinate a temptation attempt, it was treating the wannabe seducer like a teeny, little baby boy. Emasculation was the antithesis of an aphrodisiac.

The violins dropped dead. The roses wilted. The steam seemed to be more of a hiding space than a come-hither lure.

At last, dripping and humiliated, Olrin lurched forward from the lip of the tub to shove her toward the door. “Get out!”

She caught herself before she could solidly faceplant to the wet floor, and once her footing was settled, she gave a keen salute to the lord. “Gladly,” she announced, tossing the brush onto the floor, the clatter echoing in shame around the spacious room. “Next time, dry yourself. Mold grows quickly in these old houses.”

She left him there in his tub of wilted petals and crushed violin strings, towel-less and scoured like a kitchen pan.

A cleansing in every sense.